


The Storm King's Retaliation

by ZJ_Timekeeper



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Dorks in Love, Dysfunctional Family, Facial Hair, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Sparks being sparks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZJ_Timekeeper/pseuds/ZJ_Timekeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarvek decides that something must be done about Martellus' mutton chops, and that the best way to go about it is to grow some himself.</p>
<p>Set in a happy future time after Gil, Agatha, and Tarvek come into their respective titles and the Other is no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm King's Retaliation

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd for continuity and content by [sycamie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamie/pseuds/sycamie) and [stellawind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stellawind/pseuds/stellawind), without whom this work would've been pretty lackluster.

One of Tarvek’s stranger decisions upon being crowned the Storm King was to grow a set of mutton chops.

It was rumoured amongst the inhabitants of Europa, but never proven, that the reason behind this was to outdo his cousin, Martellus von Blitzengaard, as the two had been engaged in a bitter feud since their youth. The constant battle to one-up the other had finally been won by Tarvek with the acquisition of the Lightning Crown, and he was not above rubbing it in Martellus’ face. Both Agatha and Gil felt this was well-deserved, considering that Martellus had once attempted to murder him. 

The biggest problem with the theory of comeuppance was that, logically, if the Storm King were to prove a point to a cousin, he wouldn’t choose facial hair as the point of contention. 

Would he?

The unfortunate familial resemblance between Martellus and himself was all too apparent, Tarvek reflected as he brushed his hair in front of his enormous vanity. They had similar builds and colouring, and their bone structures were formed along the same lines. The main two differences were in size and hairstyle.

The brush was silent as it moved through Tarvek’s silky hair, which was treated with no fewer than six different conditioners each week. The deep ruby tresses gleamed softly in the light from the wall sconces. 

Perhaps it was Martellus’ talent at getting under his skin, or perhaps it was simply the fact that Tarvek was at Sturmhalten, where he’d never felt entirely comfortable or safe, but Tarvek couldn’t help but be angry. What, if anything, could be done about his odious cousin? Tweedle had plagued him long enough, as was apparent following yesterday’s altercation with him in the hallway.

It had started with a simple exchange of pleasantries, a courtesy expected in front of any witnesses, even servants. It had quickly devolved into Martellus bellowing loudly, the sound echoing through the stone corridors of Sturmhalten. Tarvek had watched in mingled fascination and horror as Martellus’ mutton chops bristled and swelled to a volume comparable to his voice, something which happened whenever he shouted. By now, it was a phenomenon with which Tarvek was all too familiar, yet it still rankled. 

Those mutton chops, Tarvek decided, were the worst offender where Martellus’ appearance was concerned. His size really couldn’t be helped unless one considered any number of scientific experiments of decidedly immoral nature (which he resolved to try if Martellus made another attempt on his life). His temper would not be changed without a good dunking into a volcano (also a potential option). But something _could_ be done about those mutton chops.

It was hard to complain about them, though, as no one else seemed to share Tarvek’s opinion. Gil and Agatha certainly didn’t. So he kept his mouth shut and quietly seethed in front of his own mirror. 

A thought struck Tarvek as he stared at his clean-shaven reflection. Why complain when he could appropriate?

As the Storm King, he was in a prime position to be a trend-setter, and when the kingdom saw how magnificent and stylish his own mutton chops were, how well they framed his aristocratic face, why, he would be responsible for a whole generation’s haircuts. His face was thinner than Martellus’, which meant he could better shoulder the burden of a broader silhouette granted by mutton chops without coming across as a gorilla escaped from the zoo.

Mutton chops with his long hair pulled back into a horse tail, like usual. It would be dignified. Powerful, but restrained. Majestic, even. 

In continuing his normal preparations for the day, Tarvek tied his hair back into his customary queue, admiring the lovely contrast the white silk ribbon provided against his deep red hair. Yes, his current hairstyle, which really suited him rather well, would be the perfect way to display facial hair, allowing the world to see those prospective mutton chops in all their glory. 

Tarvek’s dark eyes stared at his reflection in the mirror, the anticipatory hunger apparent through his pince nez. Tarvek imagined Martellus’ face when he saw how much handsomer Tarvek looked with mutton chops, how he wore them so much better. It was nothing short of tantalizing. Martellus might even be persuaded to shave off his mutton chops for good!

That particular daydream had him nearly skipping down the halls of Sturmhalten in between bouts of agonizing doubt, which were carefully concealed behind a mask of detachment. Despite his overall confidence that mutton chops would suit him well, Tarvek still had to consider the possibilities. What if he was wrong and they looked stupid on him? That was always a possibility when changing one’s haircut. People would also see the stages in between the fully fledged chops and his currently clean-shaven self, and might think him scruffy, unkempt, or juvenile. He’d have to time it very carefully.

Unless...

While Tarvek’s area of scientific expertise centred around automata and clank construction, he was fairly certain that he’d be able to successfully dabble in biology and chemistry. After all, it was only a tonic to make his hair grow faster.

A small part of him wondered if he should request Gil’s input on the subject, as Gil’s background in biology was much more extensive than Tarvek’s was. On the other hand, Gil also had a talent for merciless teasing, which Tarvek would probably have to endure throughout the entire process of brewing such a tonic. And Agatha would be no help in the matter. Sure, she could probably aid him in creating the formula, up until she got distracted working on another project, or right before she reported everything to Gil just to keep him in the loop.

No, he’d have to make it himself. 

So it was that Tarvek found himself busy in his lab every spare second, and those were hard to come by.

Between his duties as the Storm King, administering Balan’s Gap, and negotiations with the houses of Wulfenbach and Heterodyne to create a treaty on the forthcoming Pax Europa, Tarvek barely had time to see Gil and Agatha outside conference chambers, let alone eat or sleep, let alone perform acts of scientific atrocities in secret. And when he did see Gil and Agatha, they were generally worn out from playing at politics (Gil) or keeping up with the negotiations without sketching new clank designs on her copies of the proposed treaties and contracts (Agatha). The three were constantly surrounded by an ever-changing staff of lawyers, diplomats, tyrants, ambassadors, secretaries, and nobles, each demanding that _this_ be reworded, that _they_ be granted special power, that _so-and-so_ be deposed from authority forever and always, world without end, amen.

It was more than a little like Tarvek’s childhood, only now, he actually got a measure of respect.

Tarvek, while not glad about it, per se, was certainly realizing that growing up in Sturmhalten was proving useful. And not only was he going to put his miserable childhood experiences to good use, he was going to get yet another form of revenge on that damned Tweedle with his latest chemical experiment.

Tarvek decided to try sleeping in his lab. There, he wouldn’t be disturbed by the servants too much, and it eliminated the need to traipse across the castle whenever an idea struck him at one in the morning.

Three consecutive nights without sleep and two doses of Movit No. 2 later, Tarvek was ready to try his concoction.

Deep as he was in the grips of the Spark, he wasn’t exactly in the best position to make sound decisions, such as, “should I try this amateur potion on my face and hope for the best, or find a suitable test subject first?”

It was a knock at the door that saved him, in the end. Tarvek glanced out the window, a little surprised to see a hint of pink streaking across the horizon. It was morning. “Come in,” he finally called out, suppressing a sigh of regret.

A timid servant opened the door as little as decorum allowed. Tarvek was not a spark to treat without caution. “Your Majesty, His Highness Prince Gilgamesh Wulfenbach is here and wishes to speak with you.”

Tarvek inhaled deeply. Day. What day? Thursday. Thursday plans. Planned meetings. Dinners. Dates! Dates? Their date was for Thursday evening, and it was only morning.

“Did he give a reason for his visit?” As his Spark began to recede, Tarvek realized he was tired and that his mental faculties were not exactly up to speed. What was Gil doing at Sturmhalten so early? Agatha was busy with Vanamonde von Mekkhan in Mechanicsburg, something about civic government and sorting out responsibilities between the mayor, the seneschal, and herself, so she wasn’t going to be available for at least another week.

But Gil had actually asked Tarvek on a date, just the two of them. Surely Gil wouldn’t choose 6 AM as the time to tell Tarvek that he had to cancel. 

The servant didn’t need to respond, as the door was slammed all the way open by a familiar figure.

“Speak of the devil,” Tarvek said in annoyance. Really. Couldn’t a spark perform experiments on himself anymore without being interrupted by hulking great oafs?

“Sturmvoraus—” Gil’s anger was cut off as he stared at Tarvek’s lab with bemusement. “What the hell...?”

Tarvek stared back at Gil. “What do you want? No, hang on.” He turned back to see if the servant was still in the doorway, but he’d fled. Tarvek shrugged and motioned for Gil to close the door. “Now. What?”

Gil’s eyes narrowed. “Leaving aside the fact that you stood me up last night, look at this report I just received!”

A paper was thrust into Tarvek’s face, a rather official looking document bearing Tarvek’s looping signature. He studied it carefully. “The Baron or Baroness Wulfenbach and all family and staff thereof forfeit all authority within the confines of Sturmhalten and Balan’s Gap, insofar as Sturmhalten's ruler, the Storm King and his descendents, are charged with the custody, management, and control over these territories.” Tarvek looked up at Gil, who was looming in a rather impressive fashion. 

“So I step into Balan’s Gap and I’m powerless?! That’s not just clipping my wings—that’s sawing them off at the joint!”

Tarvek blinked. “Well, I _had_ said that to...” Was it a secretary? “But I didn’t mean it.”

“You idiot!” Gil was nearly shouting. “You were probably in a Spark fugue and running on what, two hours of sleep? Whoever heard you say that probably thought you’d kill them if they didn’t make it official!”

Tarvek frowned. “They really shouldn’t have assumed that.”

“But they did! Do you pay any attention to what you sign?!”

There wasn’t a lot Tarvek could say against this, but he was in a prime position to needle Gil further. “Well, it does help re-establish the image of the Storm King. With the exception of the last twenty years, Wulfenbach has always been a minor house. The Storm King’s legacy goes back centuries.”

“Yes, and it will end with you if you’re not careful!” Gil snarled. “Tarvek, you...” He paused again. “You’ve not slept in days.”

“Yes, and the longer you shout at me, the less time I have to sleep. I have an appointment in three hours.”

Gil pinched the bridge of his nose. “No wonder you’re making decisions like this. Red fire, what’s so important that you can’t sleep?” He sniffed, and his frown deepened. “Movit?”

“Low dosage. Need to work. On a schedule.”

Gil grabbed Tarvek by the arms and shook him a little. “What the hell are you working on?” Gil took a closer look at the lab. Bottles, flasks, test tubes, and distillation equipment covered half of the available surfaces. The rest was strewn with notes, a Bunsen burner or two, and bottles full of carefully labelled substances. He glanced at the forlorn couch sitting in one corner, looking newly singed beneath a crumpled blanket and pillow.

Connections were being made in Gil’s head as he noted the contents of each container, the scents in the room, and finally, the lone beaker standing atop a stack of notes, the liquid inside a strange shade of green.

“Why?” he finally said in a deeply suspicious voice. 

Tarvek didn’t feel that he needed to explain himself, but realized that if he wanted to keep Gil’s affections at all, he’d better start making a habit of it. Might as well get the teasing over and done with. “Mutton chops.”

“Mutton chops.”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Did I stutter?”

Gil sighed and released Tarvek, who backed up and began to clean his glasses with a pocket handkerchief. “Seriously, why?”

Tarvek couldn’t hide his angry blush, but he did look away, endeavouring to look proud despite his embarrassment. “Martellus.”

Again, Gil was left to put two and two together on his own, but he managed it quickly. “Seriously?”

“Of course!” Tarvek snapped. “He makes those mutton chops look beastly. It’s an affront to men’s fashion, and one I mean to rectify.”

“And this has nothing to do with showing him up yet again?”

Tarvek gave him a wilting glare, which was only partly mitigated by the fact that the Movit was wearing off.

“Surely you don’t still feel inferior to that monster?”

“I’m vastly _superior!_ ”

“Then why do this? Why not just order him to shave them off or something?”

“Because I’d look magnificent with mutton chops, of course!”

“Of course.” Gil crossed his arms and stared at Tarvek. “Right. That solution you’ve been working on. Has it been tested?”

“No...”

Gil let out a long breath. “Right. First things first. You need sleep. Then, you need to run some tests. After that, we need to have a talk about why you thought it was okay to manipulate me into charging in here like a hero to save you from doing something disastrous and still have me like you.”

Tarvek blinked. He’d not even considered that. Of course, he could see how Gil had come to that conclusion. It was something that Tarvek would’ve done, historically. “Oh. That’s... actually not what I meant by that.” A thought occurred to him. “What’s today?”

“Friday.”

_Oh._

Gil’s head actually rolled backward as he stared at the ceiling in disbelief. “That’s it. Bed. Now.”

“It’s always about debauchery with you, isn’t it?” Tarvek’s jibe was dampened by a yawn. The charred couch in the corner was looking very tempting. “I’ll just sleep in here.”

“Fine. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” 

“How?” Tarvek couldn’t resist further insult to injury. “You’ve got no authority here.”

“Authority, no, but logic, yes. You’re a spark who’s not slept in days. I’ll just tell them _that._ ”

Tarvek admitted to himself that Gil had a good point. He wandered over to the couch and, without removing his lab coat, slumped onto it sideways, asleep as his head hit the cushion.

He really was pathetic, Gil reflected. Sure, he’d spent many sleepless nights in his own lab before, but he could handle it better. Without the use of Movit.

Sighing, Gil removed his coat and laid it out over Tarvek. The little rat didn’t deserve it, but Gil couldn’t help but feel it was necessary. Okay, maybe he deserved it a little.

Deciding not to think about whether or not Tarvek had actually meant to get him to arrive at Sturmhalten in a huff, Gil turned to look over Tarvek’s notes. His gaze sharpened immediately at the top sheet of his stack of notes. This was impressive stuff. The research he’d done for this potion... And biology and chemistry weren’t Tarvek’s strong suits, either.

Gil turned back to the sleeping man on the couch. This had to go deeper than some contest. This was somehow personal to Tarvek, and though Gil could guess some of the reasons why, he wasn’t about to pretend that he comprehended all of it. Tarvek’s childhood had been rough, he knew. He’d had to deal with Tarvek’s nightmares on Castle Wulfenbach, and he’d picked up further hints of his dark past while in Paris and Mechanicsburg. Gil knew that Tarvek was still plagued by his memories, and was willing to go to incredible lengths to prove that he was no longer bound by his family. 

But mutton chops?

If it was just showing up Martellus von Blitzengaard, Gil might’ve understood, but this was about his facial hair, and somehow, it meant a great deal to Tarvek. 

Gil took a sheaf of Tarvek’s notes and began to look them over more thoroughly. 

* * *

It was dark when Tarvek woke up, but when he did, it was to Gil’s triumphant laughter. The sound sent a chilling shiver down Tarvek’s spine. He gingerly patted his surroundings. Where were his glasses...? Oh, yes, on the floor. He reached down to pick them up, and when he could see, he wished he couldn’t.

There stood Gil, grinning like an insane idiot at his reflection, which showed that had a great deal more hair on his cheeks than was usual.

Gilgamesh Wulfenbach had grown himself mutton chops.

Tarvek gaped at the sight. He looked ridiculous. This wasn’t just an affront to fashion. This was an abomination of aesthetics. Gil’s face was not meant for this style. He looked manic, and only partially because he was still enmeshed in the Spark. The wiry, unruly hair stuck out from his face in a shock of golden-brown, almost as though it were reaching out sideways trying to grasp something. Words utterly failed Tarvek.

“Ah, Sturmvoraus! You’re awake!” Gil bounded across the room to pull Tarvek to his feet. “Your formula was brilliant! I tweaked it a little, and it worked perfectly! What do you think?”

Tarvek considered whether or not there was a tactful way to say, “downright awful,” and decided there wasn’t one. “It’s revolting.”

Gil laughed again, and Tarvek shuddered. “Nonsense! Here, try some!”

Tarvek recoiled, but Gil struck quickly and grabbed at his arms with lightning speed, holding him in place. “Think of what this will mean! Look at how quickly I grew these! Martellus won’t know what hit him, and neither will the rest of Europa!”

“Europa?” Sure, Tarvek had daydreamed, but he’d never told Gil anything about that.

“A whole line of men’s hair care products!”

Now _that_ was something to consider. “Hair colour. Dandruff treatments. The cure for baldness.” Tarvek’s eyes grew wide as he began to think of the possibilities. “With my picture on the label.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Gil said dismissively as he returned to the workbench. Quickly, he retrieved a small dish containing a gelatinous substance. Tarvek stared at the green blob on the dish, which looked strangely small against the black rubber gloves Gil was wearing. “Just put it on where you want it to grow, and presto!”

Tarvek was still a little uneasy. “What did you do to it?”

“Oh, I fixed the problem with the unstoppable growth, for one. It should be manageable now. And I made it so the hair would grow thicker! Who knew that electricity could so easily apply to cosmetics?”

That made an interesting notion. “So you ran a current through it?”

“Yeah, before I boiled it. If you let it reduce, it turns into this paste, which makes it easier to apply in the right amounts.”

“So that’s what I smell...”

“It’ll go away in a month or two. Here!” Without waiting for Tarvek to agree, Gil smeared some over Tarvek’s cheeks, and it was through a colossal force of will that Tarvek didn’t immediately leap backward. He didn’t want to consider the consequences of what might happen if that stuff got anywhere he _didn’t_ want extra hair. The Storm King couldn’t afford to have a furry nose.

The second Gil’s gloved hand retreated, Tarvek leapt back with a snarl. “You colossal buffoon! You’ve only tested it on yourself! What if I have an allergic reaction to whatever garbage you added to this? What if it _doesn’t_ stop growing? Your safety procedures are so full of holes, you can use them as a sieve!”

Gil’s voice fairly crackled with power. “You’ll be fine. I don’t make stupid mistakes, unlike you. You would’ve tried this without testing it on anyone else.”

“Like YOU did!” Tarvek’s cheeks were going numb. He worked his jaw a little, opening and closing his mouth slowly. “What haff... havvvve... you done?”

Gil’s smile widened. 

An odd tingling sensation grew in Tarvek’s skin, and he forced himself not to claw at the sudden itch. Sweet lightning, that really was painful! And... cleansing, somehow. It was all over in less than a minute, and he turned slowly toward the small mirror Gil had discovered in one of the cabinets. He found himself holding his breath, and slowly let it out and drew in another before he could face his reflection.

There they were, gloriously thick and red. They needed a little trimming, of course, but they would certainly do!

A delighted grin spread across Tarvek’s face as his mind’s eye formed an image of Martellus’ reaction to this new look. And really, he _did_ look handsome this way. Why hadn’t he adopted this style before? 

A slight tilt of the mirror gave away Gil’s gloating smile behind him. Of course that despicable lech had to rub in how much better he was than Tarvek. Well. It was Tarvek’s creation to begin with and Gil would never see a pfennig of the profits. 

That, and Tarvek was damned if he would share the same hair style as Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. He’d scrub those... those _bushes_ off of Gil’s face somehow or other. 

“You look good,” Gil finally said. 

“Of course I do.” Tarvek tentatively raised a hand to feel the new hair on his face. It was softer than he’d expected. Tarvek had never let himself grow facial hair before. When he was still a teenager, any beard he attempted to grow was patchy and oddly light in colour, and any stylistic experimentation always ended with a razor after two days. When he was older, he’d decided that he looked best clean-shaven. But now. 

Now.

The soft hair shone with health. He patted it down closer to his face, but it didn’t seem to want to answer the call of gravity. A little product and some trimming shears would fix that.

He needed to know what it would look like properly. Tarvek whirled around to face Gil. “Pomade. Scissors. Razor. Now.”

“Where?”

“My room. Wait!” Tarvek’s head whipped toward the door, though there was no sound coming from the hallway. “Servants. Can’t see. Not yet.”

Gil nodded once. “Right.” With that, Gil made his way to the door and pressed his ear against it. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened it just a crack and poked his head through. Retreating, he turned to Tarvek. “Coast is clear! Let’s go.”

With that, the two were on a journey through Sturmhalten’s corridors, dashing down empty halls and ducking into vacant rooms to avoid being seen. One moment, they’d be outright running, their feet smacking on the stone floors, and the next, Gil would be yanking Tarvek by the back of his coat down another hall at the sound of voices.

Gil pressed his shoulder into Tarvek’s as they leaned back into an alcove between two columns. Footsteps grew louder, then receded as whoever it was continued on their way. Tarvek clapped a hand over his mouth as he held back a mad giggle. Gil’s warm scent of leather and lab chemicals filled his nose and he couldn’t keep entirely silent. They looked at each other and Gil grinned back. “C’mon!” Tarvek whispered, grabbing Gil’s hand, and they were off again, shushing each other by turns and squeaking with their attempts to stifle laughter.

The thuds of a guard’s boots caught their ears as they were about to turn into another hall, and Tarvek halted. Gil all but slammed into him from behind, but Tarvek was ready and used Gil’s momentum to whirl them around, sending them into another niche with a lot of bumping and flailed limbs. Tarvek pressed in close to Gil’s chest and they stood there, breathless with excitement.

Gil held him close as they squeezed backward into their corner. The guard went on his way, failing to notice their presence, and Tarvek let out his breath. “Just like old times,” he whispered.

“Maybe not entirely.” Gil’s arm tightened around Tarvek’s waist as he closed the gap between their faces. A warm breath flitted across Tarvek’s lips, and he was kissing Gil. It was heady, heated, and more than a little silly. The edges of Gil’s wild sideburns tickled Tarvek’s face and he pulled back with a soft laugh.

“Come on!” Gil’s hand back in his, Tarvek led them down the final stretch of hall into a spiral staircase, then it was a short jog down another passage and there they were in Tarvek’s rooms. Gil pressed Tarvek against the wall and kissed him again. There was something impatient and forceful about Gil’s kissing, as though he were trying wring all the enjoyment out of Tarvek before he could come to his senses and push Gil away.

Blood surged through Tarvek, pounding in his head and hands. Their kiss grew deeper as Tarvek soared on a wave of exultation fuelled by Spark, Gil’s nearness, the success of the experiment, and his own crazed sense of victory.

After a few glorious moments, Gil pulled back. Tarvek’s lips curved into a tiny smile. “Okay, maybe not like old times at all.”

Gil huffed out a laugh and stood back. Tarvek cleared his throat, wondering if the heat he felt in his cheeks was from their running or a genuine blush. Possibly both. How could he have forgotten that date?

“Scissors,” Tarvek said finally, and he strode across the chamber through to his toilet room, where the colossal mahogany vanity took up the bulk of the space. A few various pots and bottles held colognes, hair products, and cosmetics (though these looked less used than the others). Tarvek pulled out a drawer to reveal a shining silver set of razors and a pair of shears. He instantly set to work with the greatest care possible. 

Gil leaned back against a wall and watched Tarvek work. “You were right. You do look good like that.”

“Which is more than I can say for you,” Tarvek replied genially as he raised the shears up near his face. Concentration slowed his speech.

“It’s not exactly my thing, no,” Gil conceded. “Was fun to try, though.”

Tarvek acknowledged this with a distracted smile. 

“So... you really didn’t mean for me to come here?”

Tarvek stopped and turned to look at Gil. “No. I really didn’t.”

“Hm.” Gil stared at him with an unreadable expression for a long moment, and Tarvek held his gaze. Gil studied him for a while, then let out a breath and relaxed a bit. “I see.”

Tarvek blinked at Gil’s easy acceptance, but turned back to his task. “Well. I wonder what Agatha will say when she sees this.”

“I’m sure she’ll like it,” Gil said airily.

“I didn’t say she wouldn’t like it. I just wondered what she’d say.”

“Just when I thought your ego couldn’t get any more inflated.”

“Says the one who thought he had to swoop in and heroically make me go to bed.”

Gil scowled. “It was for your own good.” His voice was a little softer than it had been.

Tarvek smirked, but said nothing, and Gil was certain that this was intended to annoy him. It worked. 

A few moments passed in silence, and Tarvek soon abandoned the shears in favour of mixing up some shaving cream. After a several minutes’ worth of fussing with a razor and some gooey hair products, Tarvek leaned back and looked at his reflection with genuine pleasure. “I think that will do it!”

Gil, whose mind had begun to drift, turned back to Tarvek with a small hum, and he nodded. “I think so.”

Tarvek met his gaze through the mirror, and he pulled a face. “We’ve got to do something about you.”

“Me or my face?”

“Pick one.”

“One of these days, Sturmvoraus...” Gil left the threat hanging. “May I?” He gestured to the vanity, and Tarvek nodded, abandoning his place. Gil took a seat and began to sort through the various products and instruments Tarvek had assembled before selecting the scissors. Though he began his work carefully, Gil couldn’t help but have a few close calls with his bangs, which fell down far enough to interfere with his cutting. 

“Hang on,” Tarvek said, and smoothly, his cool hands gathered the offending hair to hold it back. Though it would’ve been expedient to keep his hair out of his face with a tie or a clip of some kind, Tarvek got the feeling that Gil wouldn’t appreciate the comical picture it would create, and thus, dutifully performed the task himself. Gil resumed his work wordlessly, though he spared Tarvek a grateful nod. 

“Do I really look that bad with mutton chops?” Gil asked idly as he snipped. 

Tarvek sighed. “Yes. Your face is too round to pull it off. You look like an ape.” At Gil’s raised brows, he sighed. “Sorry.”

“Sure you just don’t want a monopoly on the style?”

“I mean, if you want them, go ahead and keep them,” Tarvek added with a note of impatience. “It’s your face.” He paused. “What would Agatha say?”

“Probably something nicer than ‘ape,’” Gil shot back.

“That doesn’t mean she would like it.”

Gil said nothing. The air was filled with the snips of the shears as tufts of brown mingled with the dark red hair on the vanity table. Tarvek’s fingers were cool as marble against his scalp. There was something oddly intimate about the situation. Gil finished trimming the worst of the hair on one side, then turned to the other as Tarvek gathered the rest of Gil’s hair into his hands.

“So, about Agatha...” Tarvek trailed off. He wasn’t sure where he was going with that topic, but something needed to be said. He was beginning to feel a little affected by the feel of Gil’s soft hair in his hands, the warmth of his strong body so near him. The domesticity of it all was beginning to feel... Tarvek wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it was somehow thrilling and terrifying all at once. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to...

_To what, trust?_ came a voice at the back of his mind. He ignored it. 

“What about Agatha?” Gil asked. 

“The... the three of us. We still haven’t properly...” Tarvek paused. “Don’t you think we should get together and discuss things? I mean, in greater depth. It’s all fine and good for the three of us to have a relationship, but what will this mean to the rest of Europa? We need to think about the future. Heirs and who has claim to what, and so forth.”

Gil snorted. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a little?”

“No.” Tarvek’s voice was firm, now. “I’m not saying we should plan out the rest of our lives. I don’t know where this is going any more than you do. I just think we should all be aware of the possibilities, and make, well, tentative plans. At least so far as it pertains to our public image, if nothing else. We don’t want to look as though we’re all cheating on each other with each other.” All right, so that wasn’t the point he’d started with. He was aware that he was babbling and immediately shut up. Gil mercifully didn’t address this.

“You mean when we’re going to announce ourselves.”

Tarvek nodded as Gil laid down the scissors and reached for the shaving cream. He quickly and efficiently began to lather it onto his face. Tarvek left him to it and stood leaning against the far wall. The position afforded him a good view of Gil’s reflection and his strong back, both of which were rather estimable sights.

“Sure, we can talk about that, but when? When we’re all going to be at Castle Heterodyne next week? That’ll be fun, getting input on our relationship from a psychotic chateau.”

Tarvek shuddered. “We’ll be on Castle Wulfenbach in two weeks.”

“Sure. Maybe then.” Gil went silent as he picked up a razor.

This was going to be hard. Tarvek tried not to feel too disappointed as he realized how little the three of them were realistically going to be together. He’d known it would be a problem, what with the three of them ruling their own respective territories and soon, co-ruling most of Europa, but the reality of it was becoming a little clearer to him. He didn’t like it. 

“How soon do you think we can work on a teleportation device?” Tarvek mumbled with little enthusiasm.

Gil raised an eyebrow at him and stopped shaving. “Probably never.” He smiled, though. “The closest we can get is probably that flying machine.”

Tarvek scowled. Gil knew full well he had no love for the flying machine, or flying at all. Sadly, though, it was a good option, so long as Gil wasn’t piloting the thing, and so long as no one got pushed overboard again. “It’s probably better than waiting for Castle Wulfenbach to take its sweet time getting everywhere.”

Gil had to concede the point. Speed was never part of Castle Wulfenbach’s design. “When everything settles down, it’ll be a little easier. We won’t have to be governing everything with such a close eye, and a lot of the stuff we’re doing now is preliminary work. It’s new to all of us.”

“Not as much to you.”

“Or you,” Gil responded firmly. “We were trained for leadership. Agatha wasn’t. Sure, she’ll adapt and learn quickly. She always does. But there’s a lot to get used to. Remember the first couple weeks after you were crowned the Storm King? And there’s the Pax Europa to top it all off.”

Tarvek contemplated this for a moment and raised one hand in which to rest his chin. His fingers met the new hair and began to stroke it absently. 

“It’ll get better,” Gil finished as he returned to shaving.

“At least _you’re_ here, now.” The words were on Tarvek’s lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them aloud. He was grateful that Gil had rushed in to rescue him, though Gil wouldn’t hear him admit it any time soon. Gil’s protective streak, that infuriating valour that made him act the hero, was one of his better traits, in Tarvek’s unspoken opinion. Sure, it got in the way sometimes, but it showed he cared. If he thought Tarvek or Agatha were in danger, Gil would swoop in, swords drawn and guns blazing. 

Tarvek made a note to have some fun with this later, and with the sort of payoff which would eliminate any trace of Gil’s anger at having been tricked. Of course, Gil was intensely sharp, and might see through such a plan, which only would make the planning and the end result much more fun.

He was just beginning to visualize some truly steamy role-playing scenes (luring Gil into Tarvek and Agatha’s “evil Spark lab,” where they could then proceed to capture him and...) when he shook himself. He couldn’t get carried away immediately. There were still things to discuss between the three of them prior to that sort of activity, but more to the point, the three of them weren’t even in a proper relationship yet. Secret agreements, Tarvek reflected, didn’t constitute legitimacy unless they included concrete terminology, like “boyfriend” and “triad.”

Tarvek’s eyes caught Gil’s staring at him from the mirror. His face was smooth again, showing not even a whisker of the abhorrent hair that had once marred it. His gaze was smug. “What are you thinking about, Sturmvoraus?”

With a growing annoyance, Tarvek felt a blush work its way into his cheeks. “Nothing.”

“And you call me a libertine.” Gil’s smirk was audible as he stood to face him.

Well, as long as he was in this situation, Tarvek reflected, he might as well take some advantage of it. It was nighttime and he had no responsibilities until morning. “Must be your bad influence rubbing off on me.” He gave Gil what he hoped was a disparaging glare, as though it were all Gil’s fault if he _had_ become a libertine.

Gil snorted and tried to cover his laughter, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “Tarvek, of all the things I thought I’d say about you, ‘cute’ never quite came to mind before.”

Tarvek frowned, all hopeful feelings gone. He was a king with appropriately regal mutton chops. “Cute” was not applicable. Damn it all, he’d been trying to manipulate Gil into kissing him again! The pompous jerk had probably seen right through that. “Thanks for your help, Wulfenbach,” he said flatly. “See you next week.”

“Don’t be like that.” Gil’s smile was genuine, not mocking or amused, but content. He moved to stand before Tarvek, a little closer than necessary. “You might learn something from my bad influence. I did pick up quite a few useful things in Paris, after all.”

It was getting harder for Tarvek not to make the first move. Also to pretend like he wasn’t being affected by Gil’s implication. There were any number of reasons why they shouldn’t travel down that route, not the least of which was Agatha’s absence. Tarvek couldn’t help but feel that she should be present for their first time together. Another good reason was that he’d feel a little stupid for having given into such a terrible line. 

The worst part was that Gil’s line, however terrible, was kind of working.

Gil noticed this and he leaned in closer. Tarvek tried to keep his expression and breathing under control as Gil’s warm body pressed against his. What was he, twelve? He’d been kissed before and could handle it like an adult, and yet here he was acting like a blushing schoolboy.

The fact of the matter was that it’d been a long time since Tarvek had been seduced, and he’d forgotten exactly how much he enjoyed it. It was the feeling of being wanted enough to be pursued, with the added attraction of having the power to partially guide someone into the position of pursuer.

“Clearly,” Tarvek finally said, “you didn’t learn graceful opening lines. Talking about past affairs is hardly the way to get me interested.”

“Oh, so you’re not interested?” Gil’s smile was bordering on wicked. “I guess your heart rate is simply due to illness. Since I’m the only doctor around, I’ll have to take a closer look.”

That was better, Tarvek conceded, but only marginally. Still, he wanted to see how far he could take this before Gil gave up and kissed him. Gil, Tarvek decided, was either trying to goad him into making the first move, or else exercising his right to be exasperating by stalling for time. Tarvek wasn’t about to let Gil call the shots. “Six out of ten,” he said.

Gil’s eyes sparked with a new heat. “I’ll show you ten,” he growled, and demonstrated his point by planting his lips on Tarvek’s.

The world stopped as Tarvek went a little dizzy, but stayed mercifully upright. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before their embrace slowed to a calmer, sweeter interaction, and then finally tapered off into mutually heavy breathing as they stared at each other, heavy-lidded eyes dark and intense.

“Eight,” Tarvek finally said with badly feigned nonchalance.

Gil rolled his eyes, but kissed him again. “Bed?”

Tarvek blinked. “But... Agatha...”

Gil waved a hand. “Nah, not that. Yet. But it’ll be comfier.”

Tarvek nodded. “It’s good to know you can think after all.” He ducked as Gil playfully cuffed him, and Tarvek darted to stand behind him.

It took Gil a half-second to realize what had happened, and as he turned, Gil was the one pressed against the wall by Tarvek, who seemed to be radiating confidence. He could tell that his smoke knight training was having an effect on Gil and smirked. “What’s the matter, Wulfenbach? Am I too fast for you?”

“Now, that’s _maybe_ a four out of ten,” Gil returned, raising a brow.

All right, so it hadn’t been his best line. By this point, Tarvek was bored of the sniping, eager instead to continue their discussion on his bed. Preferably with very few words involved. But just to make a point, he leaned in and kissed Gil fiercely, hungrily, until Gil seemed, well, not pliant, exactly, but more biddable than he had been before.

“And that was maybe a five,” Gil breathed after a moment. 

Tarvek stared at him levelly. “You want me to ban you from Sturmhalten altogether?”

Gil darted in to give him a quick peck. “Fine. Seven.”

“Oh, no. Now, it’s on, and I’m going to show you everything I’ve got.”

* * *

Agatha, as it turned out, liked the mutton chops, but was not quite as excited about them as Tarvek or Gil had been. They explained the science behind the tonic responsible for Tarvek’s new look, but though she was appropriately fascinated by that, she seemed, ultimately, ambivalent towards facial hair.

When Tarvek mentioned Gil’s disastrous hair, Agatha had giggled, and insisted she know what it looked like, which led to a highly enjoyable evening of laughter and some very ticklish kisses to the accompaniment of Castle Heterodyne’s commentary.

During that same visit to Mechanicsburg, Tarvek was subjected to a barrage of impressed Jägers, who all thought his new mutton chops were, to quote Maxim, “vimmin bait.” Tarvek had little to say to this, but he ended up spending the rest of his time in Mechanicsburg attempting to avoid Jenka, who was the most entranced with his new style. 

It wasn’t long before word spread of Tarvek’s new mutton chops, which were mentioned with all due reverence at parties where he was in attendance. Within three months, he and Gil had perfected the hair tonic for widespread use, which was marketed as Lightning Surge Hair Amplification Gel. The label didn’t feature Tarvek’s face, but it did have a small notation reading that it was created and endorsed by him.

And there really was a pleasing amount of lightning bolts adorning the bottle.

It was barely a week after the new gel was being sold by barbers across Europa when Tarvek ran into Martellus at Sturmhalten. Before he could remember why Martellus was there, Tarvek straightened his posture and lifted his chin imperiously at his cousin, silently willing him to comment on the mutton chops. 

Outwardly, Tarvek gave him an ingratiating smile, intentionally overdone. “Why, hello, Tweedle. What brings you here?”

But Tarvek stopped and the smile fell off his face faster than a stone block onto an assassin in Castle Heterodyne. 

Martellus von Blitzengaard had added to his mutton chops an enormous walrus moustache, so that his dark red hair encircled his face in a fantastically terrifying fashion. 

The answer he gave was only barely heard as Tarvek stared in thinly disguised horror and fury at his cousin.

“Your face!” he finally said.

Martellus raised a hand to his face with momentary concern and confusion, then felt his moustache. “Oh, yes! I thought it was time for a change. Yours looks good, too. In a ‘last year’ sort of way.”

Tarvek seethed, but plastered a smile on his face. It felt like a grimace. “Whereas you look increasingly like a bull with a set of mimmoths strapped to its snout.” A thought struck him and his smile turned almost evil. “At least I have a crown.”

With that, he turned smartly on heel and strode away with a buoyant mood which refused to fade for a solid month.

And he kept the mutton chops.  



End file.
